


with bloody feet across the hallowed ground

by flailingthroughsanity



Series: and there's a hole where your heart lies [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dubious Consent, Lack of Communication, M/M, Rough Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23216434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flailingthroughsanity/pseuds/flailingthroughsanity
Summary: Jason’s fingers bite into his scalp, bequeathing a crown of bruises for Tim to wear in self-styled humiliation. Usurper.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Jason Todd
Series: and there's a hole where your heart lies [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1669192
Comments: 20
Kudos: 149





	with bloody feet across the hallowed ground

**Author's Note:**

> Haven't written in a long time since I decided to focus on my art, so I hope you all enjoy this entree on this angsty trainwreck of a ride to hell. It's my first time writing a batfam/robincest fic (my first and only other DC fic is a Sladick one lol). Do take note of the tags!

Tim has a million thoughts on how things can go wrong, and even a million more on how wrong can turn bad to worse up to  _ shit _ . It’s part and parcel of what makes him who he was, if he ever himself a second to just introspect. It’s the same dance, the same tango for every time he gives in and turns on his heel (not to the Manor, to the Cave, to B; no, somewhere beyond Midtown, to the darker,  _ more honest _ pits of Gotham where a boy watched a man gun his parents  _ down _ , pearls like blood on the cement).

Still, something has to be said about the instinctual — almost body-driven, memory-tipped routine — way he adjusts the angle of the grapple line, releasing it as he twists in the air.

Free fall was a wonderful thing, Tim knew. There was a certain clarity in the almost deafening rush of noise in your ears, drumming against wind and velocity. It’s the same adrenaline-tinged spike, that half-insane momentum where his brain just  _ shuts up _ — all the ugly voices, the gritty whispers, the constant shadows hounding him, biting at his heels and plunging thin-needle sharp points into the skin beneath the domino mask — all of it just quieted, fizzled out into the flap of his cape.

(The same clarity in the chase, running nine-year old legs up fire escapes, tailing a duo jumping over ledges;  _ red, green  _ and  _ gold. _ The same clarity rushing in his ears when the gold  _**R** _ is glinting in the Cave lights, the suit heavy with obligation and a Mission in his hands. The same clarity in the gurgle of liquid in his mouth, warmth on his hands and running down his neck,  _ knowing _ in an instant the identity of the person above him with a knife in their grasp.)

Turning, adjusting (body twisting with practice,  _ once more Tim, do better Tim, faster, quicker, stronger)  _ and lightly landing on the balcony of a dilapidated walk-up on the edges of the Narrows, curling around the bulk of Crime Alley.

Booted feet found familiar purchase on the rusty squeak of ancient metal grills still miraculously holding the balcony up. Glass panes, foggy, streaked with grime, reflected light from distant Midtown, and the silhouette of Robin. Streaked in grey light, staring back. Tim couldn’t see past the panes, can’t spot movement in the darkness behind it but the telltale rise of the hair on his nape, and the churn in his gut, answered for him.

Silently, Tim pushed a gloved hand against the glass window, surprisingly silent hinges revealing a gun barrel right in his face.

“Pretender,” was the greeting, word spun around a raspy voice. Tim paused for a moment, gut still churning. It’s not often Jason greeted Tim without the helmet on, the bloodied visage of the Red Hood glaring back at him from the darkness.

Jason is bathed in Gotham moonlight, skin pale and hair dark, falling into sharp blue-green eyes. Tim paused, unused to the sight of his hero still alive, despite the years. Despite everything.

The gun lowers, the safety clicking on as it falls into the holster. Tim remained as he was, knowing from experience that this field was beyond his control. In this room, with Jason breathing but a meter away from him — that derisive tint to the green flecks in the blue of his eyes — none of Tim’s constant machinations and gambits are effective. Whatever this was — this vermilion splat on the ground from high up — had no room for back-up plans and contingencies.

Not even when Jason took a step forward, and grabbed Tim by his cape, pulling him into the room.

Whatever this was — it wasn’t a technical maneuver with a dozen bullet points, one catered for every possible scenario.

No, this was something different, something gritter, something less refined. Something _more honest_ than the action plans and manipulations that Tim knows by heart, when he’s Robin, when he’s Timothy Drake-Wayne.

It only takes a moment to pull Tim over the threshold, with Jason’s grip on his cape (fingers pressed into his shoulder,  _ alive, alive, alive _ ) and a moment more to have Robin down on his knees.

Tim knew what to do, has known since this thing started weeks ago. Jason is silent — most of the time he is, if he’s not biting out insults and verbal lashes, when he’s not whispering  _ replacement _ into Tim’s ear like poison. His guts twist every moment Jason does, and Tim doesn’t ask himself if he enjoys the age-old, world-heavy weight or if he’s forgotten that he’s not supposed to.

Still, despite knowing, slight discomfort runs up his knees when Tim’s on the ground, but he pays it no mind. His fingers are already pressing into the hem of Jason’s tactical pants, brushing the taut belly under the armor.

Jason looks down on him from above, and in the shadows playing against the slopes of his cheeks, his eyes glow. Like lust, like hatred. Funny, Tim never realized how the two are so intrinsically similar.

Overpowering in their drive, unable to be reasoned with.

Still, Tim ignores the bite of the gaze, categorizes it as just one more lash against his skin covered in Kevlar. Bruce would be proud of that, Tim thinks (in some back part of his mind that isn’t in the  _ now _ ) — the second-quick ability of his to compartmentalize things and deconstruct them in the moments after—

Pain erupts from the side of his face and Tim blinks, staring at Jason’s raised hand.

“Get the fuck on with it, Replacement.” The other growls, rage overtaking the lust in his eyes and Tim doesn’t answer—

(He knows Jason doesn’t care for his meek excuses, or his careful confessions of childhood adoration. Tim knows what he is, in the now—)

He merely pops the button of Jason’s jeans open, and pulls them down, fingers sliding over the black boxer briefs underneath. He breathes in Jason’s musk — the scent of sweat and gunpowder, rain-soaked leather and tobacco slipping under the skin — and Tim shouldn’t find it comforting, in some perverse way. It’s more proof — that Jason’s alive, that he’s here (and it’s more than the scar on his throat, or the stab in his thigh) and he’s allowing Tim to have this.

Tim sees the strain in the boxers, how hard Jason already is. A part of him is delighted (even if the delight is rooted in red, and guilt races to catch up) — that Jason can be hard for him, that some part of this man that had covered wide an expanse across Tim’s childhood can still look at Tim and want him. Even if it’s just for a quick and dirty fuck.

(He reminds himself what he is, in the now, and reminds himself not to ask for more)

Pulling the boxers down, Jason’s uncut cock bobs and Tim doesn’t waste a moment before he has his mouth around it, tonguing at the bulging veins. The grip on his shoulder moves to his head, fingers threading through his hair and the bite of the gloves is tight — painful, even — but Tim doesn’t make a sound.

Save for the squelching noise of his lips around Jason’s cock, the slide of saliva against skin and the rough, chest-deep pants from the man above him. It’s noise Tim has begun to know by heart, the tells of Jason’s breathing when Tim does something he likes: a press of his tongue by the glans, the glide of teeth lightly around the base, the lap against the slit where bitter-salt blooms like fire around Tim’s mouth.

Tim steals glances upwards, at the furrow of Jason’s brows and the tightly-bitten lip (as if Jason’s holding himself back, disallowing himself from expressing in varying degrees of sound the pleasure, Tim would like to believe). It’s too dark to make out the color of his skin, but Tim feels there’s a flush there — somewhere. He hopes there is.

Every moment he’s on the ground, bruises on both knees for his Robin, Tim hopes that he can give Jason this modicum of  _ good _ , to rid the pain that lurks beneath the hatred and rage. There’s not a lot of it, these days, when Tim can spy on Jason without being seen.

Tim takes Jason deeper, feeling the head brush against the roof of his mouth, dark curly hair tickling the tip of his nose as Tim hums, eyes on the fixtures and plays of Jason’s face.

There’s a low moan, slithering past the cracks of his lips, and the furrow of Jason’s brows disappear for a second, and something  _ exquisite _ flits over the skin and muscles and Tim feels a jump in his chest, even though he’d like to see the color of those eyes underneath the closed lids—

(He did that, he made Robin feel  _ good _ )

“ _ Fuck,”  _ Jason breathed out, the fingers digging bruises into Tim’s scalp trembling (they are, Tim knows. Tim thinks), and his hips stutter forward, pushing deeper into his mouth.

Tim feels the head slip further, and he adjusts the angle of his mouth. He allows a mere skim of his teeth against engorged flesh, knowing anything stronger than that will earn Jason’s ire (a bite, and Tim knows a bullet will not hesitate to find its way in between his eyes). The head breaches the throat, and Jason’s breathing turns staccato, a repetitive punctuation in the silence—echoes even further in Tim’s head, where the voices are quiet, in short bursts. In moments.

Tim ignores the discomfort, the age-old ghosts that slowly begin to trail in familiarity, and he keeps his eyes half-open, as all focus turn from the outside, the overwhelming and narrows down into this, into the white-hot fire that’s a second from consuming them both.

Tim’s not sure if, at the end, they’ll be left standing. Jason might.

(Tim doesn’t think, even for a second, that he’s strong  _ enough _ .)

Half-bitten moans follow the breaths, and slowly and slowly, Tim sees the tension in Jason’s shoulders loosen, the sneer on his lips — forever poised at his  _ replacement,  _ at the  _ stand-in _ , at the  _ unwanted _ — growing lighter and lighter, and when a blue-green gaze peeks through the furrow and the clench of his eyelids, they’re wrapped in lust more so than rage.

The voices in Tim’s head run dead, silent, and the clarity returns. That rushing in his ears in mid-flight, the second-still pause as he stares down the barrel of a gun, the paused-breath as he aims his camera at  _ red, green and gold _ and bright laughter— 

Tim doesn’t want to even entertain the idea behind the surge of something,  _ something _ so heavy, growing out of his chest (a needle-sharp point of pain that size of his entire body).

The fingers tighten once more (bruises, and marks and badges of honor.  _ Please leave them, leave me a memory—)  _ before Jason pulls away, from his hair and from his mouth and Tim sucks in a ragged breath.

(It’s better, different. Not the gurgling kind. Not the one that sounds like drowning, lips warm with the blood streaking down his cheek to meet panicked-fingers keeping a throat wound closed.)

Jason’s still hard, still erect, and Tim doesn’t need to look down to know the heaviness of his cock bobbing in the air, or to note that line of saliva that trails from slit to his own lip. For a moment, there’s nothing but Jason’s heaving chest, and the sweat under Tim’s suit and the bruises on his kneecaps growing darker and darker. Nothing but the warm flames licking the green in Jason’s blue eyes—nothing but the pleasure overtaking the pain for a moment: the anger and the rage and the soul-crushing betrayal of a father who refused to avenge a dead son, who allowed a raving lunatic of a murderer to roam free.

As if Jason didn’t matter, not even the slightest, not even as a warning to serve  _ others _ —

Tim sees the mask fall in place the second it does, and before the Red Hood’s wrath falls upon him, he’s already turning around, elbows on the floor as he finds purchase on the grime and dirt. Presenting himself, putting himself up for Jason’s use, for his outlet.

(Something to keep the Pit from his eyes, keep the Polaris-bright shine of Robin still lurking in the depths of a smile reserved only for so few a people.)

_ Dick. Alfred. O. _

Tim doesn’t allow himself the fantasy of that mythic smile directed at him ever, and he rids the thought — allows the rushing-wind-clarity to turn doubts and whispers into static in his ears. The war drums in his head and in his heart grow into dull thuds, as fingers find the hidden release of the suit, separating top from bottom. Jason’s fingers are unkind, no — Tim doesn’t think they’re unkind, as they pull the pants down, over the swell of his ass, the bite of the Kevlar and the synthetic fiber into his hips and thighs.

They’re not unkind, not as they glide over the finger-and-thumb shaped bruises that have turned from blue and purple to gold, pressed into skin with too-tight a grip that was more passion than pain.

Tim feels his own erection strain against the cup in his pants, and he wants to grind down into the floor, find some sliver of release. He holds himself back, doesn’t allow a single touch of his own volition — this wasn’t about him. Never about him.

He feels Jason’s hands grip the cheeks, tight, adding more prints into the skin that will gleam gold in a few days’ time. They move to part him open, and Tim’s body follows, opening himself up for his Robin—

_ Take. Take. Take. _

Tim swallows the whimper in his throat as he hears a sucked-in breath, and he knows Jason sees the lubricant still around his entrance, that he knows Tim prepared himself for his Robin.

_ Take what you need,  _ Tim thinks (heady, banging against his rib cage, pressing dulled pain into the skin behind his eyelids).  _ Take everything you need. _

He feels the head of Jason’s cock press against the rim, feels the ooze of precum mixing with the clear lubricant. Tim’s eyes close of their own volition, heart pounding in his chest and in his veins and in his head. The distant sound of Gotham’s traffic dulls into white noise, into the static where it’s only Jason’s breathing and the symphony of Tim’s most desperate thoughts screaming themselves hoarse.

Jason doesn’t waste a moment; Tim is grateful, breaking is the only thing he knows.

The burn is sharp, and well-recognized, as Jason pushes in and bottoms out in one thrust. Tim holds back his groan, and ignores what he couldn’t silence (the almost-silent cry, the rushed whisper of Jason’s name and whatever fucking emotion behind that, he hopes it’s too quiet to be recognized). He feels, rather than hears, Jason’s breathing stuttering, feels the warmth of his bare hips against the back of his thighs.

The jock cuts into the meat of his pelvis as Jason leans his weight over Tim, and the bite of zippers cut into the skin not covered by Tim’s suit. Sweat runs in rivulets down his temple, hair pressed against his forehead. Water catches on his domino, sweat and the bite of tears in his eyes as Jason starts to move.

There’s not a moment to pause, to reflect, to enjoy — not for Tim. His fingers bite into his palms, in fists, but the cut of his nails can’t push through the material (can’t bite into his skin until they leave indents, occasionally rend skin open and pour tiny trains of blood in tightly clenched hands as his parents leave again, again,  _ again _ .)

Jason pulls out and pushes back in, and the sound of his cock sliding out of Tim’s ass (the lubricant and the wet muscle, the squelch, the music of being  _ used _ ), the shame in the undercurrent of the burn, the pleasure buried too far for Tim to notice, it paints in red across his cheeks. He ducks his head down, allows himself the relief of almost-quiet whimpers as Jason fucks him hard and deep.

Tim’s body responds to him in blind loyalty, in the painful arousal of his erection, in the the tremble of his own thighs as Jason plants a hand on his head (Jason’s fingers biting into his scalp, bequeathing a crown of bruises for Tim to wear in self-styled humiliation. Usurper.).

There’s no preamble, no warning — nothing said between Tim and his Robin. There never is anything to be said, when Jason doesn’t deign the him any acknowledgement, and Tim knows he’s unwarranted the second before it happens.

Jason brings his weight to bear down on him in one savage thrust, one that has the cock in him hitting hard against his prostate, as the hand in his hair slams his face into the ground, and the other digs another tattoo of pain into his hip.

Tim can’t stop a scream, short but it’s  _ there _ , from escaping his lips as pain paints a place for itself against his cheek, the cold bite of the ground pressing into his face as Jason continues to fuck into him hard. The thrusts sets fire to the pleasure under the brutal use, and Tim can’t stop himself from shaking, from slightly pushing  _ back _ into Jason’s cock, into the five-digit vice-grip of calloused fingers, and the hand keeping his head down.

Jason fucks the way he fights: an terrifying force of nature, unrepentant in the destruction he leaves. Tim doesn’t let himself feel fear ( _ lies _ , they whisper.  _ You’re afraid. Scared. Tiny Tim scared of the dark, dark, dark),  _ doesn’t let himself hesitate in meeting Jason Todd in all that he is; in the blunted rage with slam of his hips against Tim’s, the harsh breathing above him, panting into the air, the cold bite of .45 magnums against his bare hips and the shiver up his spine knowing they’re  _ loaded _ , with live ammunition and Tim’s has his back to the other, in range of a point-blank shot, brain and skull and blood exploding like a  _ zit _ —

A drawn-out mewl exorcises itself out of his throat at the  _ thought _ (was that fear or desire, the terror facing a gun or the desire to not move  _ away _ ) and Jason hears it, Tim knows, because his face is pressed even rougher and harder into the ground, the rough cement that feels like asphalt, feels like glass shards against his torn skin— 

Ass up, face pressed into the floor and the wanton, blood-soaked mewls escaping tightly-bitten lips. The image in his head, accompanied by the relentless, unwavering  _ in-out _ of Jason’s thrusts (d _ on’t stop, don’t stop, take what you need, take, take _ ). 

_ Slut. _

The thought rankles something in his chest, and it turns the warmth into something rotten, and Tim has to shut his eyes as it feeds the voices in glee, finding one more wall to pick apart as he tries to put every stone back up with bleeding hands.

Jason doesn’t say anything, he never does. Not now, not before. There’s no catcalls, no insults laced with poison meant to break him down.

Jason doesn’t call him slut, or whore or cum dumpster. Doesn’t call him an animal made to take his cock — nothing but a hole to fill and to throw away afterwards.

(It’s almost a missed opportunity, Tim thinks. He’d welcome Jason’s jeers over the voices in his own head taking those words and planting them deep.)

Jason doesn’t say anything, but Tim hears the words anyway.

Because Tim knows what he is, in this moment, when he’s moaning in want and pain and  _ yes, yes, Jason, take what you need, take me, forget the pain, just use me _ .

Tim’s the fix he needs to submerge the crushing heaviness of a disappointing world off his shoulders. Tim’s the bridge that strains under Jason’s weight as fate slowly eases him back into the arms of his estranged family. Tim is the corpse Jason climbs on as he digs his hands into the steep cliff-side and climbs his way out of hell.

Jason continues to fuck into him, and Tim knows he’s close because  _ he _ is close, even when he hasn’t touched his own erection. There are the telltale signs: Jason’s moans grow louder, less restrained; the angle of his thrusts become erratic, chasing on his peak; the fingers on his scalp tighten and they stutter, forcing Tim’s face deeper into the ground (he can already see a bruise forming, maybe even a cut; he has an excuse for Bruce ready, even before he landed on the balcony).

Tim starts pushing back faster, forcing Jason deeper into him. The angle has his insides burning, has Tim clenching harder and tighter around Jason, trying to shape his insides into the man above him. The hand on his hips slide further up, to his navel, where it meets the rest of the bruises and scars and Tim shouldn’t find it so mindbogglingly insane how Jason’s hand covers more than half of his belly—

Saliva meets the blood that runs from his lips, leaving pools on the ground against Tim’s face and his vision turns grey, miasma as he feels his peak approaching, faster and higher and closer, as Jason’s thrust grow in intensity, would have pushed him forward on the ground if it weren’t for the grip on his head.

Nothing but sound and feelings and the inferno remains: the wet smack of skin against skin, and the desperation in his tightly-clenched fists that will be a fucking  _ pain _ to unravel, and the burn of his insides as Jason uses him  _ over, and over and over _ —

The voices wail into quiet, and Tim sobs with abandon because the clarity digs deep into the sinews of his skin and bones, riding under the vessels until he’s made of focus.

And a half-swallowed scream escapes Jason’s throat, raspy — broken, undiluted in pleasure, no trace of pain or anger or pretense — and his hips dig once and final into Tim’s, and the fire inside him where Jason’s cock left indents turn  _ wet _ with his cum and Tim’s trembling, having come untouched from the intensity. His jock is going to be a bitch to clean.

They stay there, just breathing, just allowing the pleasure to let them float — let Tim flit above the chaos in his head, let Jason bask in something other than the  _ hurt _ and the  _ ire _ — and Tim hates this part.

He hates this part with every fiber of his being—

Because he can’t stop himself from imagining: imagining Jason’s deep breaths turn into gleeful chuckles as his vice grip loosens and the fingers on his hip and in his hair turn  _ gentle _ , turn  _ loving _ , soothing against the marks they’ve left. Tim can’t stop himself from imagining Jason leaning over, leaving a warm kiss on Tim’s nape, on the skin where his hair can’t reach, against the lobe of his ear — kisses the scar on the side of his neck in  _ penance _ and _ devotion _ (and Tim has to stop this, has to stop imagining because it’s too much, the abject joy the hopeless fantasy brings, has his eyes tearing up for a different reason altogether).

Tim tastes blood in his mouth and reminds himself — doesn’t allow the fantasy to grow, to find hold in whatever part of his mind that still has  _ hope _ (Jason smiling at him, Jason holding him, Jason swooping in to fight side-by-side, Jason pulling the helmet off to kiss him  _ deep _ ) — and sucks in air and reality.

It breaks the tension as Jason pulls out (Tim doesn’t whimper at this, he doesn’t) and Tim lies on the floor, with his red-colored prints and the clench of his entrance and the trickle of Jason’s cum dripping down his thighs. The weight disappears off his body, and the grip on his weight and hair disappear as Jason stands and pulls his pants up.

He doesn’t see the tightly-closed eyes behind Tim’s domino, and he doesn’t see the shaky breaths bargaining for strength to bring himself up on his knees. (Bow down, stare in wonder.)

Tim tells himself that — doesn’t let any other thought in (it’s better than knowing that Jason  _ does _ see it and he doesn’t  _ care _ ). He hears Jason zipping himself up, and Tim keeps his head down as he rises on all fours, doesn’t turn to follow the shadow to his side as long legs bring Jason up and over the window and onto the balcony.

(This is the part where the hooker gets a sweaty $50 off the ground. Tim must be a terrible whore, he doesn’t get anything at all.)

_ Shutupshutupshutup _

His fingers are trembling as he checks his thighs and legs for blood, as he digs under and feels Jason’s cum around his entrance. Swallowing deep, and finding no open wounds this time, he looks up from under his hair and sees the Red Hood’s broad silhouette, painted distant amber and gold in Gotham moonlight. Quietly, and knowing Jason isn’t looking, Tim brings his fingers up to his mouth, tasting the salt and the bitterness and  _ Jason _ , and he eases the tension in his shoulders, focusing on the taste and instead of the swirling thoughts threatening to drown him.

He fixes himself, pulling the pants back on. The buckle and catches and harnesses only flounder once in his less-than-sure hands, trying to ease feeling into his numb knees.

The sharp pain on his cheek has grown numb, and Tim reminds himself not to pick at it. Alfred will not take kindly to exacerbating already delicate wounds.

The scent of tobacco hits his nostrils, and somewhere — some part in Tim — isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or hiss at the cliche of it all. A quick and hard fuck with no regard for a partner’s pleasure, followed by a smoke. As if the blood and spit on the ground wasn’t proof enough of where and what Tim is, here and now and always.

Tim shakes his head, not finding humor at all but his lips quirk up at their ends. Force of habit, maybe. One mask over the other; he’s a master gambiteer, after all.

(Jason doesn’t have to go overboard to hurt Tim; there’s not a lot left  _ to _ hurt)

Pulling the grapple gun off the holster, Tim makes his way out of the window on silent steps (legs tremble only once; just now. They can shake all they want back in the Manor, back in his room, amidst the photos of a smiling Robin, bright in the darkness). Jason doesn’t turn to look at him, he never did, not unless he needed to. He’s leaning on the rails, leather jacket turned black in the darkness, the amber glow of the lit cigarette in gloved hands and dark hair swaying in the updraft. The damned prince looking over his Gotham.

It’s a welcome sight, a long trek from when Jason leaned above, while Tim drowned in his own blood below. (Drowning is familiar; the absence of air is an old ghost coming home to an empty house where a lonely child finds a simple joy through a boy in a cape).

Tim takes half a second to burn the image in his head, locks it in some crevice inside his chest where he himself has difficulty finding the key — next to the image of his mother’s tombstone; a boy with bright blue eyes grieving over the prone bodies of his parents; the second-long smile of recognition on Robin’s face as he turns and finds Tim with a camera pointed at him. Someday, he’ll allow the light to glimpse into his tiny hoard of treasures.

“You should come home.” Tim finally speaks — blurts, more like it— for the first time. His voice is low, rough and it catches on the last word and he’ll blame it on rough blowjobs and a scream that’s not really sure if it’s in pleasure or terror.

Jason doesn’t turn to him, he doesn’t say anything, but Tim sees the ease of his shoulders turn tight (wrong move, wrong, wrong, shouldn’t have said  _ anything _ ), the grip on his cigarette changing and the ash burning itself off. There’s silence, wind in their ears and voices growing louder and louder and louder—

And the click of a gun’s safety coming off. Jason’s only response.

The rush and the thoughts hold their breath, the same as Tim.

He thinks of Alfred slinking in the dimly-lit kitchen at twilight, shoulders heavy as his hands mix the ingredients for Neapolitan ice cream (Tim, Dick, Babs — even A and B — usually go for single flavors; only one goes for a triple set). He thinks of Dick calling out  _ Little Wing _ in the night, painful longing in his voice, hands outstretched as Hood turns and runs off at the sight of Tim behind Nightwing. He thinks of the  **RED HOOD** button he knows is on the screen of Oracle’s interface, right next to Nightwing and Robin. He thinks of Batman’s heavy punches, leaving even  _ wallet _ thieves in full body casts, grief powering his throws.

He thinks of the cum staining his pants, running down his legs. He thinks of the painting in the Manor, where a handsome dark-haired, blue-eyed man with a smile just on the side of  _ sharp _ has Tim’s heart beating against his lungs to a beat not unlike a death march. He thinks of the crimson glare of a red helmet, and dark leather and twin holsters and two strong arms carrying a crying child from a dark alley, where a rapist lies with a bullet in between his eyes.

He thinks of the second-still look of overwhelming pleasure, as if Jason can’t believe he could  _ feel _ that  _ good _ , above him.

“Please come home.” Tim repeats, before he turns, aims and shoots a line. A step on the rail and he jumps, clarity rushing into his ears.

The line is steady; and Tim only  _ half _ -wishes for it to break.

**Author's Note:**

> As you can see, Tim's not in a good mental place and Jason's current state is not helping things. Hope you enjoyed this, and hoping to see you in the next installment!
> 
> You can find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/spaceboykenny)!


End file.
